


That's My Girl

by Anonymous



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Competition, F/M, Political Campaigns, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8950441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Years later, he felt like a real dick.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cptsdcarlosdevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsdcarlosdevil/gifts).



> "I do not want silly! I want ANGST!....I honestly don't care about the pairing. Go wild." You probably weren't looking for weird Al Gore feels circa 1993, but uh, that's what I've got. 
> 
> This fic will remain anonymous for obvious reasons. Happy Holidays! Title from taken from Fifth Harmony's "That's My Girl."

 

> _It was a remarkable turn in one of the most consequential, and fraught, relationships in recent Democratic political history — a halting public embrace between two figures long defined by rivalry, ambition and a complicated union with the same man._ \- The New York Times, 10/11/2016

When she hugged him, in that awkward, stilted way she had, something came loose inside Al Gore, some long dead something that had chased itself into the dark recesses of his memory way back in 1998, or maybe even earlier, maybe back in 1993 when he realized for the first time, although certainly not the last time, that he would always be second best to her. That she would surpass him in every way possible, both intellectually and politically, and especially with _him_. 

One month later, he found he hated himself for the rising schadenfreude he felt in his throat when she lost. Just as he had. Although her popular vote win trumped _—_ _ha—_ his by the thousands. He had, for as long as he could remember, been the proprietor of the kind of dry, dark sense of humor that boggled even Tipper sometimes, and she had a psych degree. The Clintons had _—_ and this was cruel of him _—_ a certain Southern simple to them that wasn’t entirely affected, even with all those Ivy League degrees between them.

Al found it confusing to this day.

When he’d hugged her on that Florida stage, Hillary _—_ or HRC as they all called her _—_ when he’d hugged her, he’d whispered, “better you than me, kid,” and he’d meant it. It took on a far meaner cast now. 

Now he just felt like a dick.

\--

“It’s a double feature,” said Al. “ _Sleepless in Seattle_ and _Philadelphia_. Movies with Tom Hanks that have cities in the title.” 

“Isn’t he queer in one?” wondered Bill.

Hillary’s mouth quirked into a funny little shape. “Is there a joke here?”

“No, no.” Al laughed. “No joke, just thematic.”

“Did you choose the films?” Hillary crossed her arms over her chest. Her pink blouse bunched up just slightly over her breasts. It was hard not to notice how small she was under the big silhouettes she often wore. He could practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes.  

“I did.”

“Hmmmm." To Al it sounded disapproving, but he was a working against that feeling, had been working against the feeling that she always disapproved of him.

“Y’all, I can’t say that I care if Tom Hanks is queer," Bill said, like that was the issue. "I’ve heard _Philadelphia_ is a great picture.”

“That’s not the _—_ Bill, that’s not the point," Hillary said. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Bill said, smiling. He clapped Al on the shoulder, then he looked at his watch before turning to go _—_ a rarity. “See you later.”

“Seems rather pointed,” Hillary said. She gave him a hard, flinty look.

Al shrugged, hands upturned in a kind of “who me?” gesture. Boy scout until the very end. But _—_ it made him want to tug her close and smooth down her hair with his palms, tell her there wasn’t any kind of ulterior motive at work.

Once, when they were on the long bus tour at the end the campaign, he had pulled his fingers through her hair, while looking down at her, her hands settled on his waist. Tipper must have been asleep. She wasn’t a night owl, not like the three of them. Sometimes he felt like he was staying up just to beat Hillary to bed, waiting for that rare opportunity when he could have just a moment or two with Bill to himself. He was constantly trying, in an underhanded way the he found disgusting, to one-up her.

 _God_ , all he wanted was a singular moment when maybe, just maybe, Bill would agree with him without having to consult the Supreme Court.

That was her nickname. She hated it.

He’d pulled his fingers through her hair, and she’d looked up at him, quirking her lips in that vague half-smile, and from the stiff, scratchy armchair in their adjoining hotel rooms, Bill had said, “go on, Al.” Then he touched his mouth, forefinger rubbing over his lower lip; it was uncomfortably erotic all of a sudden. 

He had hesitated, and she’d known. Her mouth had shifted into a mean little smirk, like she knew he wasn’t able to play on their level. He hated her then, even with his hands at the back of her neck, his fingers laced together, her soft hair brushing against his knuckles. He expected her to laugh at him. He had a flash of her tilting her head back and laughing full-throatedly at him, baring all her teeth, her tongue, the very back of her throat, like an offering.

“Oh _Bill_ ,” she said. There was pity in her voice. “Leave him alone.”

She pushed him away. Turned her small body away from his and went to perch herself on Bill’s lap. He steadied her with a hand on her hip and the other on her knee. Hillary wasn’t wearing shoes, and her toes looked oddly connected in her nude stockings. She leaned in close and pressed her face into Bill’s neck, her arms looped around his neck. Al couldn’t see, but he assumed she _was_ laughing at him then. He assumed she was always laughing at him, at least a little bit.

“I should be getting to bed,” Al said, face flushed, feeling a fool.

“You look tired,” Hillary said.

“He looks just fine, baby,” Bill said softly. He pinched her. Al watched his fingers nip in at her upper thigh, where the pink, thick fabric of her skirt had ridden up just so. “Leave him alone, baby.”

Hillary fake-pouted at him. She played him too. He seemed to like it. Al had seen enough of them together to know that everything she did enthralled him. He’d had his fair share of drunken late night greasy food fests with Bill Clinton to know that he was no angel by half, but he was consumed by his affection for her. It ate at him, gnawed at him. He longed for her approval at every turn.

Later, a lifetime later, Al got the sense that Bill chose to stray just to remind himself that he could breathe without her. Hillary had a way of making a man forget he could.

“Go on, Al,” Hillary said. “Go to bed. Another long day on the bus tomorrow, and you know how much Bill here loves a card game. Loves any sort of game.”

Al had given them both a cordial nod and taken himself to bed, shucked off the day with his shirt and tie, and slipped beneath the cool hotel room sheets to curve himself around Tipper’s ample bottom. She was a bigger girl than Hillary. He liked her that way and he nosed at the back of her neck until she shivered and pushed back toward him. 

That night had stayed with him, odd as it was. It often felt like he'd failed some sort of test they'd put him to, but nothing really changed. Not for a long time. And what did it matter if Tom Hanks was queer in the film, he didn't have a point to prove. He'd never tired to make one. 


End file.
